


Went and Fell in Love

by forestofmyown



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Other, Reader-Insert, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-28
Updated: 2015-09-28
Packaged: 2018-04-23 21:37:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4893223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/forestofmyown/pseuds/forestofmyown
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A prisoner of a rival grounder group, you've given up hope of rescue.  When you wake to a Skyperson being tortured beside you, you find a new reason to keep fighting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Went and Fell in Love

Consciousness comes and goes. The disorientation is unsettling, and the renewed bouts of pain are not something you are ever prepared for. But it is what it is—there isn't much you can do about it. So you endure the torture, the questioning, the pain, and you welcome unconsciousness when it comes. 

You can't feel your arms anymore. They've been tied up above your head for too long, the blood is all but gone. You wonder if they'll rot off or something. You'd strained against the restraints at first so hard that you'd cut your wrists, so it's probably a good thing the blood has drained out, otherwise those cuts might have been a serious problem.

As it stands, you're basically just waiting to die. The enemy hunting party that had captured you isn't going to let you go, and you have no information to offer. You aren't exactly an important person amongst your people. Your life isn't worth anything in trade, either, so you have no hope—not even of rescue. Hope is gone by the time something changes.

You wake up, and you aren't alone. That isn't unusual, of course, but what is unusual is the fact that the torturer isn't focused on you. They've got someone new fastened to the wall at an angle to yours.

He can't be much younger than you, but he looks so unusual it baffles you—thin, pale, covered in blood, dressed in the strangest clothes. A skyperson, perhaps? He looks beat half to death already, and you wonder how long this has been going on. To your immense surprise, though, he's not as bad off as his appearance suggests, as with every question the interrogator sends his way, he sasses back.

You brows shoot up, watching the situation escalate. This kid must not have much of a sense of self preservation. It's one thing to not answer questions, and another entirely to antagonize those who are inflicting pain upon you. But his tongue is as sharp as the torturer's blade, and he snarks back with every wound dealt him. It's almost admirable, and at one point you even snort in amusement.

Bad move. It draws attention back to you. Your face seers with pain as you're backhanded. You spit blood to the floor. 

The skyperson smirks. "Bored of me already?"

Your eyes shoot over to the kid. All attention is back on him, and that isn't a good thing. He takes a blow to the gut, coughing violently, straining against the chains holding him up. He should have just let them wail on you, enjoyed the few moments of peace it would have earned him. What was he thinking? 

"If you've got a new toy," you find yourself saying, "then can I go? Not that I haven't enjoyed the stay, but—"

The torturer stares at you for a moment while you talk, then cuts you off with a knife to the shoulder. You clench your teach against a scream.

"That looks like it hurts."

You meet the kid's eyes. They look as dead as yours feel.

The torturer is getting frustrated. She twists the knife, and you jerk involuntarily against it, seething. She pulls the knife free and walks towards the other prisoner. 

"You want to find out?" She holds the knife up to his face.

"Is it optional?"

From the way her face twists, that was the wrong thing for him to say. Saying anything is probably wrong, to be honest. She moves the knife to find a spot to cut, and you find yourself speaking up again. "Hey—using the same knife on both of us? I thought we had something special."

The pain and strain in your chest is making it difficult to talk, and you don't sound nearly as confident as your words, but it works—she's distracted again. The boy behind her stares at you. You give him the smallest nod.

He returns it.

You develop a repertoire between you, using words to keep the torturer off balance, annoyed and on her toes. A consequence of this is that her torture is less calculated, more emotional, and that probably is bad for both of you. But the lingering seconds where she is listening and moving between you is a rewarding reprieve, and you'll take it. Sometimes, you can't help losing consciousness. But when you wake, you always go straight to what you realize is this stranger's defense, trying to draw his attacker away and spare him the pain you've had to deal with. He, in turn, seems to be doing the same, trying to save you.

Two people, from two different worlds, drawn together for survival. It's the one light in the dim darkness of the inevitable death you face in this place. 

You awake after a particularly bad session to find yourself alone with the boy. He's awake, surprisingly, and shoots you a smirk on his blood-covered face.

"You look terrible."

Your answering smile is so painful, your answering laugh is almost a sob. His smile slips.

"Hey, don't die on me, alright? This place would be pretty boring without you."

It hurts to breathe, but you do it. Your eyes burn, but you look up at him. "Same to you, kid."

He rolls his eyes. The effort looks painful. "You can't be much older than me."

"Who knows."

"Got a name, grounder?"

You nod slowly. "Yeah. It's Y/N. You?"

"Murphy. I'm John Murphy."

It's so dark here, in your cell or cage or cave—you aren't sure, you can't see enough to even tell what the walls are made of. A small amount of light, from the moon, maybe, filters through a few holes in the ceiling here and there. They light up his face, glistening off the blood. It's a pretty face, for a guy, even beaten and hopeless as it is. 

You hate that hopeless look. He looks sad, tired. You recognize that look—like he's been through this before, and doesn't expect to be lucky enough to manage to live through it again. Resigned.

You hate it. You don't want this poor kid to die, whoever he is. Especially after, even as hopeless as he is, he's gone out of his way to draw the torturer away from you, to spare you a little bit of the pain that's inevitable for both you of. Maybe he just doesn't want to die alone. You don't really care why he's doing it. You're doing the same for him. You don't want to watch him suffer, not when you can help.

So when the torturer's back, when it starts again, all focused on him, you can't stand it. You strain forward, pulling the arms you can barely feel, tugging over and over, throwing your body against the restraints, screaming louder than you can remember screaming since this all started. He's screaming just as loudly. They don't seem to worried about him living through this—skypeople aren't their big concern, territory fights with your clan are. This should comfort you; it doesn't.

You've been together for what has probably been days by now, and you can't stand the thought of losing the only person left in your small world, a world of pain, who still speaks to you kindly, who still cares about your life. 

To your shock, the chains jerk, giving slightly. Hope surges through you, and you lean forward walking backward up the wall behind you, using the chains to suspend your body, and push away with all your strength. Bouncing every few seconds, the chains let your fall forward a little farther each time, farther, farther, until—

You hit the ground face first. The metal plate your chains are still attached to falls forward and slams into your back, along with clods of old plaster. Shocked, the room is silent and still for a few moments, everyone too stunned to think. 

You can't waste this time. You have to save John Murphy.

But you still can't feel your hands and arms. So you roll—just as the torturer charges you. Pulling your knees up under you, you push up onto your shoulder, then climb to your feet, arms useless at your sides, starting to ache and tingle and hurt. You ignore them, slamming your whole body with all the force you muster into your attacker.

Toppling together, you wrap your legs around today's assailant—larger, male, familiar—and force your numb arms into motion. You wrap the chain around his neck—once, twice, pulling it, tighter, tighter, his hands are clawing at it, he's choking, gagging, adrenaline pulses through you, your hands are throbbing with sudden blood-flow and pain, but you hang on, hang on—

Until he stops moving. Stops breathing.

You climb off, not bothering to waste time to make sure he's dead and not just unconscious. There's no telling if anyone heard the commotion, if someone is coming. So you head straight for John.

He's chained up the same as you were. You search the torturer's body for keys, find them, and take more time than necessary fumbling with them through your tingling fingers to get him free. The first thing he does is take your hand.

Then he's pulling you towards the door. He leans around corners as you make your way through what amounts to an underground maze, but you only ever encounter any others once, and you manage to go around them completely without being noticed. You find a dead end around a corner, but the wall is partially crumbled away, revealing the ground above, and you throw up your chain, hooking it around a large stone, and pull yourself up before reaching back for John.

The two of you keep running through the woods, barely caring which direction you're headed, determined to put as much distance between yourself and your captors as possible. The sun is rising by the time you literally stumble into a stream and collapse, too hurt and exhausted to move, gasping for air and finally feeling all the anguish that's coursing through your body—especially your arms.

John turns right around and grabs you, pulling you with him and out of the water. He doesn't take you far before you both settle against a tree, curling up next to each other without thought, as natural as breathing, for comfort. 

You wake to stinging. John Murphy has water, is rinsing your wounds, strips of cloth he's ripped from his own clothes are wrapping your cuts, bracing anything broken with thick sticks. When he's done, without a word, you help him do the same to his own. It's only then you notice he'd unlocked your chains while you'd slept. Your wrists are bruised, crusted in blood, and bandaged as best he could.

He raises up. You don't know why, and don't care. You grab hold of his wrist, stopping him. Sitting up on your knees, you hold yourself proudly, shoulders back, and stare seriously into his face, his eyes.

"I owe you my life."

He shrugs, looking away, like you've made him uncomfortable. "You're the one who got free and saved me."

"I never would have gotten free on my own. I had long lost the will to live. The desire to save you saved us both."

Now he definitely looks uncomfortable. He wipes at his nose with his free hand.

"I owe you a debt."

"A what?" He glances down at you, brow furrowed.

"Do your people not have concepts like this?" You shrug off your own question. "I owe you everything, so I am giving your everything. Consider me yours."

"What?" His lip cocks, like he's smiling, but there's no humor in it—just further confusion.

"I will follow you to the ends of the earth, John Murphy. Because I want to. Because I choose to. Because I deem you worthy of me." You stand, a bit unsteady but determined. "I will not return to my people; they did not come for me. I do not blame them, but I will not fight for those who would not fight for me. You are my flesh and blood now. I go where you go—if you will have me."

He snorts, and the discomfort is palpable. "That's ridiculous."

"Are you denying my request?"

He pulls his hand free and takes a few steps back, shrugging. "You do whatever you want."

You smile, and follow.

It takes quite a few days of wandering through the woods before John Murphy finds his way back to his people. By then, you've spent cold nights huddled close for warmth, hunted for food, and listened to him talk about whatever mundane thing comes to his mind to fill the silence. You find you like this—being together. It wasn't just being trapped, the life or death situation. You honestly like John Murphy, like being with him.

And, once you get to his camp, you can't say it's skypeople in general that you like. Because you don't. And you don't like the way they treat him. You purpose running off together to live in the woods several times, promising to take care of him. He waves you off.

But if you are certain about anything, it's that you are determined to protect John Murphy. You rarely leave his side. And you begin to think that oath you made to him might have less to do with owing him your life, and more to do with wanting your lives bound together in a more tangible way. You want claim on him, somehow. You want him to be as much yours as you are his. 

Oh. You went and fell in love with him.


End file.
